


Remember Often The Destroyer of Pleasures

by SourCherryBlossom



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/pseuds/SourCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during Season 4 Episode 12. Max attends Fara's funeral. Any errors having to do with traditions or religion are mine alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Often The Destroyer of Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> Abu Huraira reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Remember often the destroyer of pleasures,” by which he meant death.
> 
> Source: Sunan ibn Majah 4258

Max stood in the very back of the Mosque, in his best charcoal gray suit, and new black socks which he had purchased for the occasion. It would never do to wear socks with holes in them, and it is expected that mourners remove their shoes in a Mosque. Heaven knew, it was not Max's first time in a Muslim house of worship, and thankfully, his varied education had taught him how to behave on most occasions, even those outside his own personal culture. He was sober and looked engaged in a fashion appropriate for any business circumstance. But there was nothing businesslike in the crushed feeling of his heart, not on this most terrible of days. He had come to pay his respects at Fara's funeral.

Max was a Global C.I.A. contractor, and had spent many months on missions around the world. His essential shyness meant that he had not been able to get past pleasantries and small talk with almost any woman that he worked with, or met out in the civilian world. But from the very beginning, his interest in Fara had been personal, and though he was shy, he thought that he would someday be able to break through to her, and make his real feelings known. He had never given much thought to her ethnicity, past the lovely color of her skin, her charming accent, or the sweet sandalwood scent she seemed to have always imbued her head coverings with. He had loved working with her, working near her. But that had all ended on the day of the Embassy incursion in Islamabad.

His grief, the terrible feeling of missing her, was a jackknife in his heart. He spent the entirety of the service studying the picture of Fara that had been placed at the front of the Mosque, next to the Imam. There was to be no last single look at Fara – not for Max, not for anyone. Her body had been washed and enshrouded, and the Imam of the Mosque in Fairfax would now send Fara's soul on to the afterlife, with the prayers appropriate to an adult Muslim woman. But in Max's eyes, she would always be a true hero who died in the line of duty. All the Embassy workers who survived that horrible day agreed with him – she couldn't have been more brave in the face of nearly certain death. This knowledge was one of his only comforts.

As chief mourner, Fara's father sat near the front of the mosque, closest to the Imam. Max could see the old man's head rock back and forth as he sobbed and prayed for the soul of his departed daughter. Max's Farsi was good enough to pick up on parts of the Ṣalāt al-Janāza, the funeral rite. The words flowed through his mind, as did his many memories of Fara:

"…O Allah, forgive her, have mercy on her, pardon her, grant her security, provide her with an enjoyable place and spacious lodgings, wash her of her sins with water, snow and ice…"

The last mention made a sob catch in Max's throat. What sins? Fara had been perfect. And what was this stuff about washing with ice? Wasn't she already cold enough? But he persevered through the end of the rite for the dead, understanding that it was poetical, and the words were meant to call up feelings and comfort the living, as well as send off the dead, with the comfort of the Prophet.

Finally, the Imam finished and the mourners filed out, and Max forced himself to pay respects. Fara's father was alone in the world, Fara having been an only child, and her mother having died many years before. But the congregation had rallied around Fara's father to support him. Max realized he was the only C.I.A. employee there, and the one of the very few non-Muslims. He gathered up his courage, and as he walked up to Fara's father as the congregation exited the Mosque, Max stood by so that Fara's father would see him, and stop for a moment. Mr. Sherazi, flanked on both sides by older women in Hijab that helped support him in his infirmity, stopped and looked up at Max.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr. Sherazi.. Fara was…." And he got stuck. Max, not a great conversationalist on the best of days, didn't know what to say about Fara. He couldn't tell the truth, in any case, could he? "She was everything to me," he would have uttered.

Fara's father looked Max up and down, and said, "You worked with her?" A frown crossed his countenance, then an outright scowl.

"Yes," said Max, trying to forestall unpleasantness. "I worked with Fara. She was…" he got lost in his thoughts again, while the old man watched and waited, and his face worked. "She was wonderful," he finished, finally.

Mr. Sherazi muttered to one of the women next to him, not knowing Max understood the language, and in Farsi, he said, "I want him to go away." Then he said something decidedly uncomplimentary about the Agency, which Max didn't entirely take in. The older of the women holding Mr. Sherazi's arm whispered something encouraging, then seemed to urge him to say something, and Max caught the phrase, "Kindness of Allah." And then, she muttered, "the only one who came." Max looked around – the woman was right.

Mr. Sherazi drew himself up to his full height, and looked Max in the eye. He held out his hand, and Max shook it. To Max's surprise, Fara's father said, "Come back to the hall. And eat with us," he said. It must have cost him a great deal to say it, because he sagged visibly afterwards.

Max looked at the floor, then back up into the old man's eyes, and said, "Thank you."

The congregation regrouped at the hall at Dar Al-Hijrah a half-hour later, with some of the same ladies setting out plates and cups, and providing a variety of Middle Eastern finger foods and treats. Max self-consciously made a small plate and sat next to some older gentlemen that seemed to have the best English skills, but as usual, his difficulty speaking to perfect strangers was only made worse by the awkwardness of the situation. He was only able to convey, "Yes, Fara, yes, working. So sad, so sad," he got out. Then he gave up, his conversational mojo was blown. Well, at least he had come. He finished his food, picked up his paper plate, and stood up.

He had been ready to head out, but was surprised to see Mr. Sherazi motion to him. He tossed his paper plate in the trash, and got a cup of tea for himself, and another for Mr. Sherazi. He brought lumps of sugar also, and surprised the ladies sitting with Mr. Sherazi as well as the man himself, by popping a lump straight into his mouth, then sipping tea over it.

It was amusing enough, and he heard one of the ladies say to the other, "ghand pahlou", and at that even Fara's father hazarded a weak smile.

"Yeah," he said, "Fara taught me." He had been appalled the first time he'd seen her pop an entire lump of sugar into her mouth, and then sip dark, scalding black tea through it. But since she'd been gone, the Persian way of drinking tea was one of his favorite ways of remembering her.

Mr. Sherazi sat up, looking more interested, and asked Max, "So, you work with Fara?" He was hoping, no doubt, for any bits about his daughter, his beloved child. So Max did his best, and squaring his shoulders, told what he knew, and something of what Fara was like in her work, and with her friends. For socially awkward Max, it was a great act of courage. He began:

"Yes, she was an Agency analyst. Very good with finance, very good with numbers," he said. Fara's father and the women nodded.

Fara's father grunted, "For long time, she let me think, she worked in a bank. A banker," he said, shaking his head. "I don't like lies," he finished.

"Yes, sir," Max attempted, "but she really was an amazing financial analyst. Very thorough, very careful. And very smart," he said. "That part was true."

Again the ladies nodded. Max didn't know how much they were actually getting, but they appeared to understand. They stood up, and offering one more bite of baklava to Max and Mr. Sherazi, began to bustle about with platters and begin the clean-up.

Mr. Sherazi's dark eyes filled with tears, and with effort, he blinked them back.

"Tell me," said the old man, "were you there?"

It was the question Max had been dreading. He would so much rather have told stories about Fara's life, than her death. How lighthearted she could be in the face of stress. How fast she had picked up surveillance techniques from him, anything at all, and as fast as he could teach her. How she made a wicked  _Baghali Polo_  once and brought it to him when he was sick – no note, no message, but who else would have brought a covered dish of dilled rice and fava beans to his apartment? Too bad, he thought now, that she hadn't rung the bell, so he could have at least thanked her in person. Coming back to work the next week, he'd said simply, "Thanks," and she'd said, "My pleasure," with a sweet smile and downcast eyes. That had been the extent of their conversation, but he always loved to hover around her. How many women would he ever find that were as shy as him, and as smart as she was, but still so beautiful and desirable? She was one of a kind, and so much had been lost. And now he'd have to speak to the old man, he had opened himself up for this, and God help him, he'd try to tell the story right.

"Yes, I was there," he said.

Fara's father's eyes, he couldn't meet them, they were so intense with pain. "I never wanted her to take this job, go to this place. This was wrong, wrong for my daughter."

"I've felt the same," Max said, almost pleading. "You know, she was best at the finance. She was in a bad place at the wrong time," he said, hoping he was understood. He was still angry at Carrie for recruiting someone gentle like Fara into a fucking war zone, when it was so far from her specialty.

"I ask you this only," said Fara's father. "Then, we will not speak again. Did you, did everyone, do what they could? Did you all do the right thing?"

Max looked down. Again, the question he dreaded. He blamed himself for her death. But then so did Quinn, Lockhart, and everyone else who'd survived that day. He'd grabbed a gun off a dead Talib and whacked one of those motherfuckers out, fast enough to save another Embassy employee, but it too late to save Fara. Haqqani's knife had sliced open her kidney, almost literally gutted her from behind, and she had been close to death before she hit the floor. Still, at every moment, she had been so very brave, barely made a sound.

"We all did what we could, in the worst possible situation," Max said. "And I want you to know how brave she was. She looked that evil man in the eye, she stood up for herself, and her faith. And her family. She knew he saw her as a target. But she stayed true, sir. Right until the end." As Max finished, a tear ran down the end of his nose, and dropped off onto his suit pants.

He hoped that some of what he had said had made sense. He knew he couldn't say much more without making it worse - that he had literally begged Haqqani to kill him instead, screaming, "No,no, no, take me!" It was too painful to relive it himself, as he did several times a day, and sometimes all night. He couldn't inflict that knowledge on her parent. He had loved her, and had watched her be murdered before his eyes. But these hideous things, these must remain secret, secret to all but the few witnesses. He still did wish Haqqani had killed him instead - it would be easier than living without Fara.

Fara's father had had enough, Max could see that the old man was tired, and had asked and answered all the questions he could stand for now. Max made motions to excuse himself, and stood. At the same time, Fara's father struggled to his feet.

"I understand, I understand a lot now. And I thank you," he said. Max was glad he had come, and had put himself through this, if it helped her family honor her life.

They walked towards the door of the hall together, with another one of the ladies again supplying support on one side of Fara's father, and Max himself supporting his other side.

"You are a good man, to come," his father said at last. "And, I think, I see that you cared about my girl," he said. It was a statement, not a question. He didn't sound accusing, like you'd think a typical controlling Muslim father might be, but simply stating a fact – he could see Max had felt something very strong and special about Fara. It must be all over my face, Max thought humbly. And that's fine with me.

"Yes, I did," Max said, bravely, now the three of them at the door near the top of a set of marble steps. "I cared about her very much."

Fara's father had the wit not to ask if he had been improper, or if his daughter had been. Max could see that he knew better, regarding Fara and now apparently regarding himself as well.

"Yes. Yes. She was a great beauty," said the old man. And at that, he was finished, turned away from Max with a damp handkerchief to his face.

Max was overcome himself, and the best he could manage was, "Yes, she was. Goodbye, sir."

Max was relieved, as almost everyone is, when the funeral was over. It was as if a burden had been lifted, and Max all but trotted to the car to get out of there faster. He couldn't wait to get home, get out of this monkey suit, maybe call Carrie and see how her Dad's funeral had gone. He had wanted to go, but he couldn't be everywhere at once. As he started the engine, though, the trouble on Max's brow wrinkled into a commotion of heartache, and then he simply crumpled, hands over his face, and sobbed into the steering wheel.

Yes, he thought. She had been a great beauty. She had been his joy. And the rest of his long, lonely, empty life, he would remember her, her eyes, her delicate hands, her softness and her smell.

A great beauty, and gone too soon. He sat up, knowing there would be no surcease from the misery, not this week, not this month or this year. He wiped his eyes, put the car in gear, and headed for home.


End file.
